


Shattered Glass

by Sossity



Category: due South
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Dark, Deathfic, Gen, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2011-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sossity/pseuds/Sossity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kowalski gets hold of Chekhov's Gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered Glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalijean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalijean/gifts), [SLWalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The due South Zombie Radioplay](https://archiveofourown.org/works/142177) by [kalijean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalijean/pseuds/kalijean), [SLWalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker). 



> AU scene following chapter 96 of the amazing work listed above--if you haven't read that, this is going to make absolutely _no_ sense at all.
> 
> So. I wrote this in literally a couple of hours immediately following my first time through the Radioplay (and I have no idea _where_ the hell it came from *looks askance at brain*); and it's been sitting on my hard drive ever since while I occasionally poke it with a stick and waffle over whether it came out _too_ dark.
> 
> That's right: I'm not sure if it's _too dark for a zombie apocalypse AU._ Consider that a warning and enter at your own risk. (And that includes you two: I won't mind a bit if you guys don't feel like reading it; it certainly left a bad taste in my mouth writing it.)

I didn't mean for you to actually _do_ it.

I didn't think you'd take the gun.

I just--God help me--wanted you to shut up.

I just needed you to stop ragging on us. You wouldn't stop, you wouldn't listen. I _couldn't do it_. I didn't think you could.

I should have stopped you. I should have broke away from Vecchio when I had the chance. I should have kept my fucking mouth shut in the first place. I know this now.

Thought you shot _me_ at first, you know. It was the way the sound smashed through my eardrums and made me jump like they stuck live wires up under my fingernails. The way I couldn't move my body until Vecchio did. The way I could have laid down and bled out when I saw him.

He was always beautiful, this angel that could have been plastered on the ceiling of some old Italian church. Except now he didn't have one of his eyes no more and the white sheets underneath him had his halo painted on them in red and gray. I don't know, maybe even then I could have taken it if he looked peaceful. You know, if there was some sign, some feeling that this was the right thing to do, like that nasty spider voice crawling around in my gut for the last couple days had been trying to tell me.

But he just looked wasted. All twisted up and small like a druggie on his last trip with this look of absolute horror on his face. He helped us live, he got sick, he suffered, we shot him, end of story. Ain't a nice story, not something Disney'd make a movie out of, but it's the only one we've got.

And you. You put my gun down oh so gently on the foot of the bed, right where his feet would have been if his legs weren't curled up like that, and walked out of the room with your head up high. Back to your precious radio.

Me and Vecchio bundled him up in one of the blankets and took him out on deck a little later on. Vecchio wanted to take the blanket off first, but I made him keep it on. I didn't want him to get cold down there. It was stupid, I guess, but Vecchio didn't argue. So we tossed him over the side and said goodbye. We patted each other on the back on the way back in, telling each other it was all for the best. He's not sick anymore. He'll never have to deal with another zombie. That sort of thing. It didn't really help.

You didn't even get up out of your chair.

Later on you tell us it's because you found other survivors on that damned machine. Me? I think it's because somewhere in that room you stopped being human. You're trapped in that dark little room with those filthy sheets and you can't get out. It doesn't matter who you talk to on that radio, dear, it doesn't matter who rescues you from this damned boat. You'll still be there. But don't feel too bad. You've got me for company.

And now you're hiding something. I can tell. Your brother can tell. You couldn't lie to save your life, and something's eating you up.

I blink and I'm across the room, pinning you to the wall. Your brother's trying to pull me off, but I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what the fuck you're not telling us. You look scared. I'm shouting.

Turns out your survivors have a survivor. Some girl who got the fever and came out the other side without turning. I laugh. What else _can_ I do?

I swear I don't remember picking up the gun. I must have grabbed it when I moved through the room, but I don't feel it in my hand until my finger squeezes the trigger. There's another boom, and you just _look_ at me before you slide down the wall. I slide with you. You look just like him, all tangled up and broken. You clutch at the hole in your stomach and shake ( _bad guys, shake_ ) for a second before you're gone.

And then the blood rushes back to my head, and _oh, Lord, what the fuck have I done?_ The zombie killed him. I killed him. You killed him. I killed you. Ain't no innocent bystanders here, judge. We're all murderers together.

I wonder for a minute how the hell I'm going to live with myself. Then I realize, and it's like a rush of ecstasy or one of them other drugs: _I don't have to_.

 _I_ got the gun now.


End file.
